


In Times of Trouble.

by Still_and_Clear



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluffy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Sexual Tension, Some angst, a bit of everything, season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 04:20:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4905292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Oswald trade secrets, as usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Times of Trouble.

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place at an unspecified place in season one, after Oswald has got the club.
> 
> All comments gratefully received :)

Oswald swore under his breath, half in English and half in mangled Polish and German, a habit only ever resorted to when he was caught unawares. It was 3am. Surely even _Maroni_ wasn’t uncivilised enough to try and have him killed at this hour. He tied the sash of his dressing gown with rather more force than required, feeling defiant. He would _not_ be menaced while wearing pyjamas. 

Pulling his revolver from his bedside cabinet, he made his way tentatively down the hallway, towards the hammering and banging that was going on at his front door.

As he neared, he heard a familiar, unwelcome voice.

‘Penguin! Hey Penguin – open this door before I kick it off its hinges!’

He stopped short. ‘Detective Bullock? What do you want? Where’s James?’

He heard an exasperated snort from Bullock.

‘He’s here, alright? Just let me in and I’ll explain.’

Opening the door just a crack, still on the chain, Oswald peeped out suspiciously. He could see a red-faced and dishevelled-looking Bullock and, arm slung over his neck and clamped by his side, a seemingly-unconscious Jim Gordon. His eyes widened, and he fumbled to open the door as quickly as possible.

He closed the door quickly behind Bullock.

‘What happened?’

‘Look – I’m not giving you all the details, you’re not my snitch. As far as you need to know, we were on a case, talking to some regulars at a bar, and Jim’s cover was blown. They poured the best part of a bottle of scotch down his throat and pushed him around a little. Now me, I could have taken it, but Jim here threw a lot of it back up in my car in the way over here and has been out cold since…’

Oswald stopped listening and lurched forwards towards Jim.

‘You can’t let him sleep! That’s not what you do! We need to wake him up!’

Bullock barged past him, heading towards the sofa. ‘Ah, now, here’s the thing. I have to follow the lead or these bastards’ll get away with this – and Jim here’ll make my life a misery if I don’t go chasing after them – so I need to leave him with someone. 

‘Surely a hospital…'

‘Nope. Between you and me, Jim pissed off the mayor, the commissioner, and both Dons. I’m not leaving him anywhere without decent security’

‘Wouldn’t he prefer to be left at work?’

Bullock grunted as he heaved Jim onto the sofa. ‘Nah – Jimbo’s not the most popular guy at the precinct.’

Oswald sniffed haughtily. ‘Too principled for the rest of the herd.’

‘Watch your mouth, Penguin. You’re my last resort. It’s not safe to leave him at work, and his love-life is a train-wreck. Lee’s a nice girl, but she’d happily autopsy him after that breakup.’

Oswald looked at him dubiously. ‘And you’re willing to leave him with me?’

‘Here’s the thing. If you try to extract any kind of information from Jim here while he’s loaded, then I’ll remind him when he sobers up that you’re a sneaky little rat, and that you took advantage of him. In fact, I’ll tell him you even had a sly look on your face when I left him here, but I had no other option. There’ll be no more cosy favours after that.’

‘How do you know I won’t risk losing the continued favours for valuable information I could extract from him right now, in his condition?’ asked Oswald, sullenly.

Bullock looked smug.

‘Yeah, well, here’s the other thing. I’m not dumb, Penguin. I’ve seen how you look at him. You’re _sweet_ on Jim here. Don't deny it. Like I just said, If you squeeze him for info when he’s like this, and he finds out about it – which he _would,_ ‘cause I’d tell him - then he’ll _never_ have anything to do with you again. _Never.’_

Oswald could feel anger building behind his eyes, and his face reddening at being exposed so, but he forced himself to focus for Jim’s sake.

‘So – you keep an eye on him until I can come back for him. And you’re not even going to think about wheedling a favour out of me in return, because you’re all giddy at being able to play nurse.’

Oswald’s mouth tightened until his lips were bloodless. He nodded, a tight, humourless version of a smile on his face.

‘Detective? I’m always happy to help my good friend Jim.’

Harvey snorted and started to make for the door.

‘But, Detective?’

Harvey turned.

‘I do hope, for your continued good health, that you remain Jim’s partner for a very long time.’

Harvey tapped the brim of his hat, grinned, and left.

Oswald glared towards the closed door before turning his attention to Jim, sprawled rather awkwardly on the couch. He bit his lip, thinking of how to begin. First of all, he had to try to wake him up. One of his duties as Fish’s lowly umbrella boy had been dealing with over-ambitious drunks. Fish had been _very_ particular about not drawing any unseemly attention to her establishment, and a customer dying of alcoholic poisoning would have been very unseemly indeed. 

Oswald, always keen to learn - knowledge _is_ power, after all - had gone off and found out that everything he had seen in every movie had been wrong. No sleeping it off, walking it off, cold showers or coffee. Consciousness, warmth, water. Relatively simple.

Oswald perched beside Jim’s outstretched figure on the sofa.

‘Jim? James?’

Nothing. He tried shaking him, tapping his face. Still nothing. Feeling panic rise in him – because if he could not wake up then it would _have_ to be a hospital, despite what Bullock had said – he lifted Jim’s left hand and pinched the inside of his wrist as hard as he could. 

_That_ got a response, an annoyed grunt and eyelids opened a crack, squinting crossly at him. Oswald felt his chest loosen in relief, and immediately took advantage of this, hooking his hands under Jim’s arms to try and pull him into an upright position.

‘Jim? Jim, old friend – I need you to sit up, please. It’s very important’

Jim lay still for a moment, unmoving, regarding him with some confusion. Oswald prayed that he was a biddable drunk, and – unusually for him – his prayers were answered. Jim heaved himself upright abruptly, very abruptly – with Oswald jerking back to avoid a clash of heads. Once he was upright, Oswald hauled him round so he was sitting with his back against the couch. Jim was _heavy,_ and once he had him propped up, Oswald sat back on the coffee table opposite him, breathing hard.

‘Jim, can you tell me my name?’

Jim looked unduly irritated by this question, even more than usual.

‘I _know_ your name. Coblb, Coppl...’

Oswald felt a grin, highly inappropriate in the circumstances, twitch at the corner of his mouth.

‘Try my first name.'

Jim stared at him reproachfully.

_‘Oswald’_

‘And where are we?’

‘Gotham.’

Oswald let himself smile properly. He was definitely not sober – but not as bad as he had feared. Vomiting all over Detective Bullock’s car had evidently been helpful. And generally pleasing, he thought, smugly. 

His face, though – that would need some attention. One eye looked swollen, and the rest was peppered with cuts and grazes. He still couldn’t let him sleep quite yet, though, not with possible concussion and all that whiskey.

Jim leaned his head back against the cushions a little. Oswald tapped him on the knee.

‘Jim, my friend, I’m afraid I can’t allow you to do that. I know you’re tired, but you have to stay awake for a while. I’m going to fetch you some water now.’

He scurried into the kitchen, stopping on the way back to grab the comforter from his bed. When he came back, Jim’s eyelids were drooping again. He patted his cheek insistently.

‘Jim – I have that water for you. Try to drink it, please.’ 

Unfolding the blanket, he draped it around him, pulling him forward so he could wrap it properly around his shoulders. Sleepy, Jim apparently did not feel like making the effort to sit upright, and instead slumped forward and let his forehead rest in the crook of Oswald’s neck. Oswald felt himself blush, and gently pushed him upright again. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to attend to practical matters.

‘Now,’ he said brightly, clasping his hands together. ‘Isn’t that better?’

‘How’d I get here?’ asked Jim, his voice rough, words a little slurred.

‘Detective Bullock.’ Oswald didn’t bother keeping the sneer from his voice. ‘He told me what happened, and that he didn’t trust hospital security, or the...’ His voice faltered, unsure of how to phrase the fact that Jim’s fellow officers could not be trusted to protect his well being.

Jim did not respond. His face looked suddenly bleak, and his eyes seemed more tired than they had a moment ago. Oswald felt something twist in his chest. He leant forward, his voice fervent.

‘I’m positive that they’ll come round to your way of thinking eventually. More than positive. I told you before, I can see these things.’

Jim’s eyes moved to regard him. Oswald nodded once to underline his certainty, and then leant back, satisfied. 

‘Harvey trusted you?’

‘Don’t you?’ asked Oswald, unable to entirely keep the irritated hurt from his voice, despite his best attempt to sound neutral.

Jim looked at him as soberly as he could with one eye fast swelling shut and too much whiskey in his system.

‘I _shouldn’t_ trust you.'

Oswald tilted his head, and regarded him with interest.

‘That means you _do._ And you should – your instinct to trust me is perfectly right. I look out for your best interests alongside my own. And I would _never_ harm you, or let you be harmed.’

Oswald stood, clasping his hands.

‘Now, those bruises.’

**

He could feel Jim’s eyes on him as he came back into the room, carrying a small first aid kit. He left this on the coffee table, and went to fetch an ice pack.

He sat beside Jim on the sofa to do this. Facing him on the coffee table was uncomfortable, putting his leg at a difficult angle, and Jim’s sense of balance was not currently reliable enough to ask him to stand.

‘Here.’ He handed Jim the ice pack. ‘Hold this against your eye, please. I’ll clean up some of these cuts, first.’ He tried to keep his hands as light as possible, loath to hurt him. He felt a vicious anger burning low at whoever had done this, and wondered whether Bullock might be convinced to share that particular information with him later. Colourful thoughts of revenge were interrupted by Jim’s voice.

‘Sorry about waking you up.’

Oswald moved his focus from the cut on Jim’s chin up to his eyes. He was looking at him pensively.

‘Pardon?’

‘You’re in your pyjamas. We woke you up. And you must sleep funny because of the…’ he gestured vaguely towards the floor, the word ‘nightclub’ temporarily missing from his vocabulary.

Oswald smiled, amused. 

‘It’s no trouble for a friend. And I’m actually in my dressing gown.’

Inebriated Jim did not seem to want to protest against their friendship in the way sober Jim did. He did, however, apparently take issue with being corrected about the pyjamas.

‘But there’s pyjamas _under_ the dressing gown. See?’ This was delivered in a triumphant tone, as if deftly solving some difficult case. Reaching out, he pulled the lapel of Oswald’s dressing gown to the side, in order to prove his point. Oswald felt rather flustered by this, and – grabbing Jim’s wrist gently, put his hand back down by his side, and went back to tending to his face, feeling his own face rather flushed. He worked in silence for a moment, until Jim piped up again. 

‘Barbara’s parents bought me a silk dressing gown for Christmas one year. _Silk.’_ He pulled an incredulous face. Feeling it best to humour him, Oswald made an appropriately sympathetic expression and nodded. At least he was conscious and talking. He had been worried, with the head injuries and the alcohol…

‘I don’t even wear pyjamas.’

Oswald’s brain temporarily blanked of everything except this information. 

Jim sighed. His eyelids were beginning to droop again. Oswald fumbled for a subject – _anything_ – although preferably not nightwear. And not business, that was forbidden, and politics was too close to business…

‘Do you miss the army?’

Jim’s eyes focused on him.

‘What?’

‘Do you miss it?’

Jim was silent for a moment.

‘I…it was time to go. I wanted to do something else. Have a home. Come _home._ Gotham is home.’

Oswald listened, fingers smoothing antiseptic cream over a cut. Jim’s eyes were wistful.

‘It was… easier, though. Orders. _Command._ I always knew... knew what I should be doing.’

‘But not now?’ asked Oswald. Jim looked at him, the expression in his eyes troubled. Oswald felt an urge to comfort him. The fingers resting on Jim’s face wanted so, _so_ badly to stroke his cheek that a little tremor ran through them. His eyes closed for a moment, looking for control. Jim was his friend, and he would _not_ take advantage of his current state – no matter what anyone might think of him. He focused on replying to him, instead.

‘It must be difficult, to have a chain of command you trust, and a rulebook, and then come _here._. The chain of command won’t work here because it’s rotten from the top down, Jim. And there’s no use in a rule book if no-one will play by your rules.’

James didn’t immediately respond to that, watching him work.

‘What’s in your rule-book?’ 

Oswald’s hands paused for a moment while he thought.

‘Well… I don’t like rule-books.’ 

James was quiet, his eyes steady on him, waiting for him to continue. Oswald allowed himself – for the tiniest moment – to enjoy being the focus of Jim’s calm attention, instead of his usual obvious unease and desire to leave his company. 

He kept working on his bruises as he talked – finding that simple touch, something he so rarely had, soothed his own nerves.

‘I’m first generation. My parents are from Europe. Gotham was safety and opportunity - somewhere their son could grow up safe, could work hard and _succeed_ – without ties to corrupt officials and...’

He could feel himself getting carried away, and glanced up at Jim’s eyes, finding them fastened on him. 

‘And it _was,_ in a way. So _much_ opportunity. I tried so hard – I _wanted_ to do well. School was…’

Oswald took a breath, trying to keep his composure. Absurd, that school should still be able to make his chest burn with a sense of injustice after all this time.

‘School was…difficult. I tried to make friends, but…well…I’ He looked down at his hands, frowned. ‘I talked differently, and looked different, and my back was…’ He sighed. ‘They didn’t _want_ to be friends. They wanted to call names and… So I thought: maybe if I were smart – I _was_ smart, Jim – then they’d be impressed and I’d _make_ them like me – even if I hated them…’

He smiled bitterly. No need to elaborate on how _that_ had gone.

‘Well…I left school as soon as I could. And there was never any chance of college, anyway – not enough money – and the rent…’

He cleared his throat. He hadn’t meant to reveal quite so much. His past might constantly fuel his fire to succeed, but it made him feel shabby and threadbare. Still, if he trusted anyone with his secrets, it was Jim Gordon. If he could even remember the secrets he had told him in the morning.

‘We lived in the… less reputable part of the city. I watched the cars drive past, low-level family members looking for new muscle or workers or just expendable bodies. Still, though, a way _out_ …’

Jim’s voice cut in, low and angry.

‘That’s what they _prey_ on…’

Oswald smiled wanly.

‘I wasn’t unwilling. I, I wanted to show everyone what I could… ’ He looked Jim in the eyes, his face twisted. ‘I _tried_ the rulebook, Jim – but it’s _fixed._ If you play by the rules you’ll be pushed to the side lines. No money, wrong accent, wrong clothes, wrong name…’

He could feel himself growing more agitated, until a touch to his hand made his voice dry up in his throat. He looked down to the hand resting on his knee to see that Jim had covered it with his own, squeezing his fingers tightly. 

He let out a shaky breath, and looked hesitantly up at Jim, terrified that he would find pity there – and he didn’t _want_ pity, didn’t _need_ pity, just wanted him to _see._ When he looked, though, he saw no pity, just Jim’s usual stoic expression. He took a breath, and tried to get to safer ground, plastering a weak smile to his face.

‘And to think, Detective Bullock was worried that I’d try to prise all your police secrets from you. And here I’ve given you mine instead.’

Jim continued to regard him seriously, almost reprovingly, unconvinced by this sudden attempt at light-heartedness. Slowly, he took his hand away. Oswald felt his body lean forward ever so slightly as he did so, reluctant to lose the contact. He did, though, and he smiled sadly.

‘Well, Jim, old friend. I think it’s safe for you to get some sleep now. You’ve managed to stay alert and follow a conversation – there’s no concussion, I don’t think. I’ll sit here, though, and keep an eye on you...’ 

James interrupted him.

‘Don’t you want a secret from me?’

Oswald shook his head, irritated. His voice was sharper than he would have liked when he spoke. 

‘No! I didn’t tell you that as some sort of trade! I just… wanted you to know’

‘I didn’t mean that’ said James. ‘I just meant… friends know things about each other. Equals. We’re uneven, now.’

Oswald smiled at him. Jim was still predictably concerned with fairness, even when drunk.

‘I don’t think you have any dark secrets, Jim Gordon. No skeletons in your closet. I bet you were a happy child, and a popular teenager, and you’re a good man. You’re too decent for your job, and you’re politically… idealistic… but there’s nothing for you to lose any sleep over.’

He rose awkwardly from the couch.

‘Now, like I said. I’ll do some paperwork while you sleep.’

He wandered over the books of accounts he had left on the kitchen counter and then headed back to the armchair closest to Jim. He opened the first page of the ledger and glanced sidelong to see if Jim was asleep, but he was lying on his side, watching him. 

‘Try to sleep, Jim.'

‘Is that what you really think?’

Oswald frowned. ‘I don’t follow?’

‘A good man. No secrets.’

Oswald sighed. Jim’s thinking could be very black and white. Rather limiting. ‘Secrets wouldn’t make you a _bad_ man, James. Just human.’

There was a pause. And then Jim spoke again, his tone suddenly casual.

‘I broke up with Lee.’

Oswald frowned, confused. ‘Detective Bullock mentioned. I’m sorry.’ He’s not, not really, but he feels bad if his friend feels bad.

James’ eyes were intense on him now, in contrast to his deliberately casual tone. Clearly he had some secret he felt the need to confess, being honest at heart, but Oswald could not puzzle it out of the broken pieces of information he was presenting him with.

‘She was sweet – lovely – but I felt like a liar.’

Oswald waited patiently for him to finish. Maybe he would ramble himself to sleep.

‘When I was alone with her, when we were being...’ - Jim raises his eyebrows meaningfully, oddly prudish, for all the information he was sharing – ‘I… a couple times…' His voice got suddenly quieter, raw. 'I thought about you.’

Oswald felt like the breath had been knocked from him, and then his face twisted in misery. Jim Gordon had told him something he had never expected to hear. Something he had only ever imagined. Fantasised about. Dreamt about. And he couldn’t _do_ anything about it, because the ridiculous man was drunk, and he had promised, and he was his friend. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and took a deep breath, looking for some control.

‘Well.’ He said softly. _‘Well._ We’re quite even on secrets now, I think. Finish your water, Jim. You need to get some sleep’

Jim was still looking at him, his face troubled. 

‘Get some rest’, he said again, not looking up from his paperwork. It was a Herculean effort, and testament to his excellent self-discipline, but he did not look up again from his paperwork until Bullock knocked the door again at around 7am. He let him in, and let his quips bounce off him sullenly, and avoided looking at James as they left.

Tired, his head aching from his broken sleep, Oswald limped slowly into the bathroom. Leaning over, he turned the faucet and began to run the bath. And perching on the edge of bath, frustrated beyond belief, and heart-sore, and alone, he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and - if his eyes hadn’t been so dry and gritty with tiredness – he might have cried.

**

Jim was staring grimly at a case file. He had been working incessantly for the last week – eating worse than even Harvey would dare, and virtually living at the precinct. He rubbed absent-mindedly at the rapidly-fading bruise on his chin, a memento of his beating at the bar. He could kick himself for being stupid enough to get jumped there. But it had been the end of a long week, and there were a lot of them, and only one of him. A very drunk one of him. 

Besides, that was far, very far, from the most stupid thing he had done recently. _That,_ without doubt, would have to be when he had drunkenly told Oswald Cobblepot that his mind had been on him when he was alone with Lee. The embarrassment caused by this was bad enough to warrant his current foul mood and bid to kill himself through overwork, and still made the back of his neck flush hotly when he thought about it.

There was something worse than that, though. Much worse. Contrary to everything he would have expected, Oswald Cobblepot had _not_ tried to take advantage of this situation. His face had crumpled and Jim had thought, for a terrible, terrible moment, that the man was going to cry. He hadn’t, though - just told him firmly to get some sleep, and then sat nearby working, making sure that Jim slept safely. Jim had stared at him until his eyelids had drooped, but Oswald had kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the account books in front of him. 

_This_ was what Jim was working relentlessly to avoid thinking about. Because when he thought about it, he felt like a heel, and all he wanted to do was to somehow go back and fix what he had done. He might be short-tempered, he might snap at the man, he might reject his overtures of friendship over and over again, but he would like to think that he wasn’t a cruel man, and he didn’t take pleasure in the idea that he had caused him pain.

Alongside that was Jim’s own confusion over what had happened, and what he had confessed. The nights with Lee were not, _strictly_ speaking, the first time he had thought about… about _that._ There had a been a couple of dreams months ago that he had put down to stress, and told himself firmly that he had misremembered in the morning. 

Then there had been that comment from Harvey a while back. About how he had fantasised that he and Fish might…

‘Maybe I head to the club for some intel, and it’s late, and we have too much to drink, and one thing leads to another, and she can’t deny her physical attraction to this’ he gestured to his own body ‘magnificent specimen, and she pins me to her desk and has her way with me…’ He stared off into the mid-distance, misty-eyed, mouth slightly open. ‘Or maybe she shows up at my apartment, all vulnerable, needing my big strong self to protect her...’

Jim did not need those images when he was eating lunch, and had said so. Harvey had only laughed.

‘Not my fault that _I_ get Fish Mooney and _your_ contact is Penguin, Jimbo. No after-hours passion for you with that little weirdo.’

Harvey rubbed his hand thoughtfully over his beard and looked at him sidelong.

‘Although… if you _wanted_... I’ve seen how Cobblepot looks at you. He’s got a _crush_ on you, Jim. I’m sure he’d _love_ to take you up to his private rooms one night. Some nice champagne, dim lights, and trade some... favours.’

Jim had cut in with a warning _‘Harvey’_ – but Harvey was enjoying this far too much.

‘Or maybe he’d show up at your door with a black eye – when _doesn’t_ he have a black eye? – knowin’ that you’re a boy scout who’ll want to look after him. It’s late at night, and you’ve had a couple drinks. Maybe he’s got a few bruised ribs. Maybe you ask him to take his shirt off. Maybe it all gets a little _steamy...’_

Jim had cut in a desperate bid to _shut him up_ before his brain decided to give him illustrations.

‘Jesus – Harvey – how much time do you spend thinking about this stuff?’

‘I’m naturally dirty-minded, Jim. It comes easy to me. It’s a gift.’

Thankfully, the conversation had moved on from there. Mostly due to a visit from Ed, which had led to 20 minutes of ranting from Harvey about ‘goddamned riddles.’ 

Later, though, Jim had woken in the small hours of the morning, disturbed by some dream he couldn’t remember clearly, didn’t want to remember clearly. Lying in the dark, his mind had gone over the business of the day for distraction and strayed to the conversation, or rather Harvey’s unasked-for monologue, at work. 

Mercifully, his mind was still fuzzy enough from sleep that he could safely pretend to himself that this was a dream in the morning – and he had let himself imagine, only for a minute _only for a minute,_ Oswald Cobblepot shirtless on his couch while he slowly pressed ice to his ribs and watched him shiver. Or maybe sitting in his rooms above the club, trying to talk business while Cobblepot flirted and batted his lashes, as usual, except this time he didn’t stop at flirting, was actually brave enough to make a pass, raising his hand from where it lay on the back of the couch to lightly caress the back of Jim’s neck with his fingertips, slipping down, beneath his collar…

It hadn’t taken much, embarrassingly little - actually, to make him come, and he slept soundly the rest of the night.

After that – he had tried to keep the man out of his mind as much as possible. Although when he did slip, it tended to be when he was in the dark, in his bedroom. His interactions with Cobblepot had been terse, bordering on downright irritable. And so it had gone, until Harvey had decided to actually deliver him to the man’s door in the middle of the night, which had made the whole situation materially worse.

Aside from the more… physical side of his predicament, there was something that was troubling him on a deeper level. Because simple lust, that could be controlled. He was a physical guy – he didn’t deny it – but he prided himself on his discipline. He could keep things under control if he had to. But what had happened that night in Cobblepot’s rooms had complicated everything.

When Jim told people that Gotham was his home, and that he had come back with Barbara to make a home there, he hadn’t just meant just an apartment in the city. It was everything ‘home’ had come to mean to him when he was on duty. Safety. Protection. Belonging. 

In the end, he hadn’t been able to make that place with Barbara. He hadn’t managed it with Lee, either. He took his fair share of the blame for both of these failed attempts. Home definitely wasn’t at the precinct, where he could feel his colleagues’ glares between his shoulder blades. For some reason, it wasn’t in his small, sterile apartment, either – where even his attempts to hang pictures had somehow made it feel more impersonal, more wrong, just somewhere he slept between shifts.

Instead, home, or the feeling he called home, wasn’t something he had built, or chosen. Home had turned out to be somewhere wholly unexpected: a set of rooms above a mob-run club, inhabited by a crooked man in an absurd dressing gown, who had been soft-voiced, and meticulously gentle, and hadn’t tried to pry secrets from him when he easily, easily could have, who had handed over his own secrets instead, without even a flicker of distrust.

Harvey had asked him afterwards if Cobblepot had ‘behaved himself’ and ‘made sure he was OK’ – telling Jim that he had made sure that the Penguin would play fair. Jim had nodded once and changed the subject, and neglected to mention that not only had Oswald played fair – but for the first time in as long as he could remember, he had felt safe. Safe. With a dangerous man. With a criminal. 

More than that, he had felt _cared-for._

Since this realisation, more frightening than simple physical attraction by far, he had distracted himself with work as much as he could. He could have hit some bars with Harvey, taken a girl back to his place, burned off some frustration that way – but despite all the compromises he had made since arriving in Gotham, he still liked to think he was a gentleman when it counted.

So instead he worked until he dropped, and ran through the city streets when he wasn’t at work, and refused to think about this home he had found, hiding in plain sight.

He wasn’t sure, though, how much longer he could go on this way. He told himself that staying away from Oswald was a kindness, that whatever damage he had done would be better mended in his absence, that he’d forgiven him quickly enough in the past after their run ins. But his conscience nagged at him, and it was more of a relief than anything when Harvey had asked him to go by the club and ask if there was any intel on the newest drug Gotham’s residents were gleefully using to self-destruct.

**

He timed his visit deliberately – early morning, before the club was open, when he might catch him in his rooms again. Maybe, maybe if he was there again, with him – maybe it would feel different than he remembered. Maybe it had been the liquor, or the exhaustion that had coloured the experience, made it seem more than it had been. He’d go there, and he would feel awkward and out of place, and Cobblepot would smile and stand too close as usual, with no evidence of having been hurt, and Jim would be irritated like usual, and everything would be fine. Normal.

The big one, Gabe, had let him in easy enough with a ‘Nah, Detective – you’re good. Just go on up and knock.’

His hand had almost faltered, but he did it and waited. He could hear familiar footsteps approaching, and the door was pulled open sharply.

‘I’ll be down in a moment, Gabe. I’m just...’

His voice petered out as he registered that it was Jim in front of him, and not Gabe. 

‘Jim. This is unexpected. Please, do come in.'

Jim followed him inside. He was not fully dressed yet, although for Oswald that just meant that he hadn’t put his vest on yet, and his collar was unfastened, with that weird little bow-tie thing hanging loose. Jim realised he must have been staring, trying to figure out what the hell that little tie was, anyway, when Oswald’s fingers fluttered nervously to his throat.

‘I, I apologise that you find me somewhat dishabille. I usually, well…’ 

He was babbling and Jim interrupted to try and spare his discomfort, putting his foot in it in the process.

‘No, I’m sorry to disturb you again’

 _Again._ He could have bitten his tongue. Jim’s eyes slid to the couch without his permission. Oswald noticed, and immediately offered him a seat, his gestures a little jittery.

They both sat alongside each other on the sofa. Jim watched Oswald twist his hands nervously on his lap. He took a breath and turned to face Jim, a smile on his face – as usual.

‘Well. I take it there is some matter I can help you with?’

‘There’s a couple of things’ said Jim, carefully. ‘Harvey wanted me to ask you if you had any information about a new drug on the street. They’re calling it quicksilver…’

Oswald frowned, shook his head. 

‘These things appear all the time. They’re all the rage for a while, and then they fade away. It’s cyclical. Tedious’

Jim nodded.

‘I could make a few calls, though – see if anyone else has heard anything. There’s a few…’ He rubbed at his temples. ‘Do you mind, James, if I make some coffee? It’s early – caffeine will help my brain along. Would you like a cup?’

‘That would be good. Can I...?’

Oswald brushed off his offer of help, tutting and telling him he was his guest. Jim sat back a little, and listened to the sound of him in the kitchen, fussing over the coffee. He leaned his head back against the cushions, and cautiously asked himself how this felt, and, _no,_ oh no, it hadn’t been the whiskey, or the head injuries – here is was again, the feeling of _home_ settling over him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, but heard Oswald heading back over with the coffee and sat up straight again.

‘There are about four people who might have information’ said Oswald, as he settled on the sofa, coffee in hand. ‘I can make discreet enquiries. You said there were a couple of matters?’

Jim took a sip of his coffee and wished it was something stronger.

‘I wanted to thank you.’

Oswald smiled nervously, and started to fidget with his coffee cup.

‘There’s really no need to mention that again, James. You already...’

Jim spoke firmly ‘Not properly. Not like I should have.’ 

He looked at him steadily. Oswald was big-eyed, staring at him like he hadn’t seen him before. 

He cleared his throat.

‘You could have said no, but you didn’t. And I guess Harvey told you I had no place else to go. And you stayed up all night in case I had concussion. So – like I said – thanks.’

He stuck his hand out abruptly, falling back on the formality of a handshake. Oswald stared at his hand, and then quickly followed suit, nearly spilling his coffee in the process.

‘And it, it seems fair… if you ever need somewhere, I’m at Oak Street, now. Forty seven’

Oswald seemed speechless, which as far as Jim could recall was a first. Their hands were still clasped together, and he began to gently try to disengage. Oswald looked down and blushed and drew his own hand back quickly.

‘I should go. Thanks for the coffee. And the phone calls.’ Jim stood.

Oswald awkwardly rose from the couch. ‘Let me show you out.’

They walked somewhat slowly to the front door. Jim made a weak effort to tell himself that this was to accommodate Oswald’s leg, since he seemed to be limping badly this morning, but since the chances of returning to some kind of safe status-quo were looking increasingly distant, he gave in, and acknowledged that it was more likely that neither of them especially wanted to leave the other’s company, and the strange companionship they found there. 

**

When he does show up at his door -not quite as soon as Jim might have expected, providing a salutary slap to his ego - it is with cuts and bruises that make Jim wince. He can use force when he has to, but this kind of violence bothers him – always has. Opening the door wider, Jim gestures him inside.

‘Not as fancy as the other place, is it?’

Oswald turns to him and beams, and then winces when this makes his split lip worse. ‘It’s your apartment. I like it.’

He’s artless when it comes to Jim, and Jim finds now that he likes it. He thought at first he was constantly insincere, always trying to please, or compliment, or flatter – and all in that strange, affected manner of his. It irritated him, made him uncomfortable. But he’s realised that Oswald genuinely likes him. And wants to be liked back. And is so inexperienced in friendship, never mind anything more than that, that he’s as awkward as all hell. 

They’re sitting on the couch now, in a perfect reversal of their roles a few weeks ago, except Oswald is not drunk and spilling all his secrets, and Jim is not wearing the world’s showiest dressing gown.

There’s also the fact that while Oswald, for a man who is generally utterly unscrupulous, had been scrupulously gentlemanly with him - Jim is not feeling remotely gentlemanly. He tries to make conversation.

‘Are you going to file a report?’

Oswald rolls his eyes at him. Of course he won’t.

‘It’s nothing, really.’

Jim shakes his head, disapproving. ‘I’d like to live in a city where serious assault isn’t _nothing’._

Oswald shrugs this off. ‘I’m hardly a civilian, though. And you wouldn’t want to live anywhere else Jim, would you? Not really.’

Jim wouldn’t – but he doesn’t admit this, slightly nettled at being seemingly so transparent. He bats the question back, instead. ‘I gave you the chance to go somewhere new. Somewhere safer.’

Oswald juts his chin stubbornly. ‘I told you: Gotham is my home. And I love my home’ He sighs. ‘I’ll admit the city can be unkind, at times.’

Jim’s fingers on Oswald’s face slow fractionally, just, _just_ enough to make the line between a practical touch and a caress seem suddenly blurry. He chooses his next words carefully, for once.

‘Kindness is rare. Important to hold on to it, wherever you find it.’

Oswald’s pale, clever eyes flick sharply to his. Jim keeps carefully rubbing the antiseptic cream into the cut on his cheekbone with his thumb, but when he’s done he does not lower his hand, instead uncurling his fingers until they rest lightly along his jawline. 

He watches for a reaction – but Oswald is frozen, wide-eyed. Jim’s stomach drops. He’s taken things too fast, too far, or – worse – completely misinterpreted everything. Mortified, his eyes dart away from Oswald’s, and he draws his hand back. 

This is seemingly what galvanises Oswald into action, as - grabbing at Jim’s shirt - he surges forward and presses his closed mouth hard to Jim’s. It is klutzy, and clearly a first, and tastes a little like antiseptic cream, and makes Jim’s chest feel lighter than it has for weeks, for months. He opens his mouth to deepen the kiss, and puts a hand to the back of his neck, and rests another at his waist, stroking his thumb back and forth. Oswald sighs into his mouth and slides a hand up to the side of his neck, letting his long fingers flutter there, and it all feels far too good, and it feels like a long time before they pull away, staring dazed at each other.

He should take his hand off his waist. He should lean back, create some distance. He should make an excuse. He should tell him to leave. He should say something that would damage whatever the hell this is beyond repair – remove all danger.

He doesn’t do any of those things.

**Author's Note:**

> If you got this far, thank-you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> The title is from a quote from Euripides: Friends show their love in times of trouble, not in happiness.
> 
> Happy to chat in the comments.


End file.
